


Riposte

by Mazarin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fencing, Friendship, Gen, Pre-Slash, based on canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-05
Updated: 2011-09-05
Packaged: 2017-10-23 10:38:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bit of a story based on John's list from "A Study in Scarlet" that says Holmes is "an expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman."</p><p><i>He really is amazingly fit, now that John is getting a good look at him for the first time without a shirt on, lean and well muscled with smooth, clear skin scattered with a few freckles here and there. He doesn’t go to the gym, John doesn’t think, but he isn’t sure just how he keeps himself looking like that. John thinks of his ruined shoulder and sighs, the limited movement and residual pain keeping him less active than he wishes he was. </i></p><p>How John might percieve Sherlock in the early days of their association, when Sherlock is still so physically perfect, and John is not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Riposte

John Watson likes simple things.

When he wakes up of a Saturday morning, he likes to stretch, have a scratch, maybe have a wank if the time was right and he was in the mood for it.

What he does not like, unequivocally, is walking out of his newly-acquired bedroom to find himself at the business end of a long, sharp sword.

“En Garde!” Sherlock Holmes says, disgustingly cheery and rather wide awake for all that it _is_ Saturday, and as far as John knows, there’s nothing on.

“Get that out of my face,” John says, and swats carefully at the offending object. It’s a very thin sword, more like a long needle than anything else. “Go away.”

Sherlock flashes a heart-stopping smile and drops the sword to his side.

“Nutter,” John grumbles. “I’m sharing this flat with an absolute nutter.”

“No worries, John,” Sherlock calls from the stairs. “I have this epee for exactly the use it was intended. See you later.” The door to the sitting room slams, and John can hear the echoing bang from the front door.

Seven thirty. In the morning. On a Saturday. And he’s already had a sword pointed at him.

Welcome to Baker Street.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

“All right you,” John says, turning to dig some liniment out of his bag. “Shirt off, and no arguments.”

Sherlock slowly sits down on the low table in the sitting room and raises an eyebrow at John’s imperious tone. But he slowly starts to work on his buttons under John’s watchful gaze, trying to shrug the shirt off and getting stuck partway through with a hiss of pain.

“Here, you great idiot,” John says, and walks behind Sherlock to gently pull the shirt off of his arms. “What on earth possessed you to try to go up against the second-best batsman on the Glamorgan club? He had a pipe, Sherlock, a bloody pipe! I’m surprised your ribs aren’t the only part of you that’s black and blue.” John skims his hands up under Sherlock’s undershirt and pulls that off too, turning a critical eye to the purple-red mess he finds along Sherlock’s left side.

Sherlock quirks his lips in a quick, rueful smile. “Because I didn’t know he was the second best batsman on the Glamorgan club.  Ow! Must you press so hard?”

“Shut up, I’m not pressing hard, I’m smoothing over the balm. How can you not know Jason Blevins? He’s been all over the news programmes for his new contract. Largest ever signed for a cricketing club.”

“Oh, sport. Dull.”

“What? Don’t you follow sport?” After only a couple of weeks, John’s shocked whenever he finds anything Sherlock doesn’t know.  Sherlock’s utter ignorance of politics or the workings of the solar system was flabbergasting,  as knowing that the Earth goes around the Sun was almost unconscious for him at this point.

“Not as such, no. Not like you, at any rate. How’s that physiotherapy coming along, by the way?”

“You keep your trap closed about my therapy, because you’ll be there with me one day, the way you throw yourself around. Lift.” Sherlock lifts his arms enough for John to get the strapping wrapped around his chest. “Now. No chasing criminals for at least a week, and no lifting for a couple. You’ll just have to suffer through.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock stands up and turns his back to John to start gathering his shirt. John takes a moment to admire the long, graceful line of his spine, marred slightly by the strapping. He really is amazingly fit, now that John is getting a good look at him for the first time without a shirt on, lean and well muscled with smooth, clear skin scattered with a few freckles here and there. He doesn’t go to the gym, John doesn’t think, but he isn’t sure just how he keeps himself looking like that. John thinks of his ruined shoulder and sighs, the limited movement and residual pain keeping him less active than he wishes he was. And perhaps not quite as attractive with his shirt off, these days.

“Let’s get something to eat,” John suggests, when he realizes his thoughts have meandered just a little too far. “I’ll order and pick it up. You take some paracetamol and have a rest. Yes?”

Sherlock looks at him for just a moment and something shifts behind his eyes, a little spark that makes John realize that Sherlock has just figured something out, something about him, and he’s suddenly the object of focus for that quicksilver mind. He tries not to squirm as he turns to the door, leaving Sherlock smiling at him and not saying a word.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

 As soon as John spies Sherlock’s epee in its black bag leaning in a corner of the sitting room, his fingers itch to touch it.

It’s just so unusual, he thinks, as he pulls open the zip and draws out the weapon to examine it, drawing off the blade cover to reveal the shining blade.  It fits slightly awkwardly in his hand, the bell-shaped guard a bit constricting, but he takes a few experimental swipes with it. The weapon has some heft, and looks vicious as it sings through the air. It’s very elegant, though, and the contrast between the shining grace of the weapon and his own blunt, thick fingers wrapped around the handle makes him feel suddenly gawky and graceless.

“Very dangerous, that,” Sherlock drawls from the open door.

John jumps and nearly drops the thing, but manages to save it from a bash against the floorboards. “Jesus, quit creeping like that! Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be a snoop, just a bit curious. Why do you even have this thing?”

Sherlock crosses the room, takes the weapon from John’s hand and swings the blade up in a salute before placing it back in the case and snapping it closed. “It’s a competition epee, John, not a ‘thing.’ I told you I had it for the purpose for which it was intended, did I not?”

“Well, yes, but you can’t tell me you actually fence?”

Sherlock looks mildly offended. “Of course I do; I have done since I was a small child. You seem surprised.”

“I am, a bit. I mean, a bit old-fashioned, isn’t it?”

“Not really. You asked me the other week about sport – well, this is my sport.”

John frowns. “Yes, you would do, wouldn’t you?” he says quietly. More than ever he feels keenly the toll his injury has taken – the loss of motion in his arm, his lowered level of endurance, the layer of fat developing over his abdomen. His legs are still quite strong, at least, but the rest of him feels slow, thick, tired, depressed.

Sherlock gets that look in his eye again – the one he had a couple of weeks ago, the one where it seemed like he could see deep into John’s brain and tease out whatever little coil of secrets were stashed away in there.

John shivers. There may be a day he gets used to that look, but today is not that day. “What?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes and looks at John, thoughtful for a moment. “Do you have anything on this afternoon?”

“No. Why?”

“You’re coming with me.”

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Sherlock pulls open the door and ushers John inside a large entryway of an ancient building set off the Highgate Road. The ceilings are high, the woodwork dark and polished, and there are literally hundreds of photos of fencers on the walls, around the corner and all down a hallway that ends in a wide door. Some are black and white, some color, and all of them show classes upon classes of fencers, individual portraits interspersed between them. John’s eye is caught by one – a smiling, skinny, extraordinarily young Sherlock.

“Is that a mullet?” John says as he stops stock still to look at the picture. Sherlock can’t have been more than 12, his wiry little frame almost dwarfed by his protective suit, a gleam of triumph in his eye that looks remarkably familiar.

“Shut up,” Sherlock says, and pulls him away by the sleeve. “It was 1988, we all looked like that. Except you were too old to have the excuse of childhood.”

John shoves him into the wall good-naturedly and they bicker and roughhouse all the way down the hall. John’s glad that Sherlock’s seeming reticence is starting to melt away some; John’s missed the easy camaraderie he shared with his mates in the Army, and he wasn’t sure Sherlock would be the type to ever drop his guard enough, let John get close enough, for that kind of relationship. It’s nice, really. Comforting, if slightly maddening.

They reach the door and Sherlock turns to him with a quirk of a smile and walks through.  John stares in amazement at what he sees.

The room he’s in is a large gymnasium, with the requisite high rafters, tall arched windows, and a viewing balcony running along the top. A few students are practicing, their foils clashing with clinks and pings, and an instructor critiquing from the side. One group waves to Sherlock as he walks around the floor to the opposite side and gestures to the men’s changing room.

“I need to go in and get ready, but if you go through that door over there and up the stairs, you’ll be in the balcony. You can see better from up there.”

“All right,” John says, but he isn’t quite sure what Sherlock expects him to see. He’s a bit uncomfortable – this place is posh, no doubt, and who knows how much it costs to be a member here, which Sherlock obviously is and has been for quite some time.  Once he climbs the stairs and finds a seat he leans back and watches the other fencers for a while, feeling like he’s invading a foreign land, a place where no one speaks his language and he doesn’t understand the customs. He laughs a little at the flippancy of his own thoughts – yeah, he’s done that once already, and has a ruined shoulder and an occasional limp to show for it. Here at least he could probably get a decent cuppa and the only thing he’d have to worry about is an accidental poke in the eye.

He watches some of the other fencers for a few moments, their quick, sharp movements almost incomprehensible.  They move so fast, jumping forward and back, their feet sliding across the floor with small shuffling noises, the swords ringing as they collide.  Small lights are illuminated on a board along the wall, or on a small stand between long, thin rectangles of blue floor marked with lines. John’s pretty sure they light up when someone scores, but he doesn’t know the rules well enough to know just how that happens.

The door to the changing room opens and Sherlock strolls out, the dark coils of his hair stark against the snow white protective jacket and breeches he’s wearing. The form-fitting clothes emphasize Sherlock’s leanness, his legs seeming even longer than usual. He has a mask tucked under his arm and his epee in his hand, and he walks with easy grace toward the center of the gym to an open space. He’s only there for a moment before another man, less than 20 by the look of him - still gangly and coltish - joins Sherlock in the center, bending his head slightly to speak with him. Sherlock shakes his head and gestures, but he’s too far away for John to hear properly. It looks like he’s asking to practice with Sherlock, but Sherlock’s having none of it. He finally must say something to make him relent, because the boy suddenly nods sharply and steps back.

Another man walks confidently to the other side of the strip, looks to Sherlock, raises his hand in a small wave. Sherlock does the same and steps to the line closest to the center, salutes, and pulls on his mask. No words are exchanged that John can hear, but Sherlock and the other man suddenly raise their weapons to the ready and bend their knees slightly, bouncing gently on their toes.

Sherlock attacks first, a quick lunge toward his opponent that drives the other man backward almost three full steps to avoid. He counters quickly, wasting very little time, his epee flashing down and away, trying to get Sherlock to chase it with a block. Sherlock does, but arcs his body backward to avoid a quick swipe from his opponent.

John’s entranced. Sherlock’s body moves with speed and agility, decisive in attack, strong and courageous in defense.  His body shifts into a graceful pose, standing tall and proud and regal. He’s so elegant, John thinks, so perfectly suited to this, years of training and discipline revealing itself in the quick flash of steel on steel.  John’s eyes lock in on Sherlock’s next attack, a quick two-step forward and a flick of the wrist to tease his opponent with the tip of his blade before he executes a quick double-thrust that looks like it might have hit home somewhere near his opponent’s arm.

Watching Sherlock’s effortless execution, his flowing movements, makes John feel more keenly than ever that which he’s lost. Even rugby with a few mates would be a bit much to manage now, his arm unable to reach much above his head, above his shoulder, really. And he’s still so tired, so much of the time. The infection that had kept him down for almost two months really did wreak havoc on his body, and his endurance is still low. He ran with Sherlock that first night on pure adrenaline, and paid for it dearly the next day – and days afterward.

Sherlock parries another combination attack by his opponent, taking advantage of his sudden off-balance to conduct an attack of his own. His epee hits home dead center on the man’s chest and it’s over, Sherlock dropping back a step to rip off his mask, his face glowing and triumphant. John can feel a slip of that triumph in his own chest, his grin stretching wide when he meets Sherlock’s eyes over the railing of the balcony. Sherlock looks wildly alive as he stares up at John, his eyes bright and his very posture vibrating with adrenaline and the cock-sure swagger of his own superiority. 

John swallows heavily, something he can’t quite pin down slithering down his spine, and he has to force himself to move when Sherlock gestures that he should come down to the changing rooms.  His days of feeling that kind of endorphin rush, the glory of victory, are behind him, but he’s more than happy to join Sherlock in his, even if it was just a practice match. Maybe John could take him out for a drink, to reciprocate an overture. John feels like they’ve reached a break point,  more friends than flatmates, now.

The door squeaks a little when John pushes it open. “Sherlock, you in here?” he calls, and heads around the corner when he hears Sherlock’s echoing reply. Sherlock is just walking out of the shower, pink and damp with a white towel wrapped around his narrow hips.

“What did you think?” Sherlock says, and starts pulling clothes out of his locker and getting dressed.

John turns around a bit – sort of rude to stare, and he really has to fight it, for some reason – and says lightly, “I don’t think it will ever be possible for you to stop amazing me. What else can you do, juggle knives and breathe fire?”

Sherlock chuckles. “Hardly. I’ve never tried to breathe fire.” He pauses, and John can hear the rustle of fabric as he pulls on his trousers. “Look, John. There’s a reason I asked you to come with me today.”

John cringes a tiny bit. “Yeah?” he says. He figures its safe enough to turn around, so he does, getting an eyeful of Sherlock’s chest as he closes the buttons of his pale blue shirt over it. He feels a bit defensive, that sort of perfection flaunted in front of him for the last hour and a half. “Trying to let me down gently, then?”

“What?”

“I know I can’t keep up with you, Sherlock, not on any regular basis. I love coming on your cases, but I know I’ll just slow you down. It’s all right, really. You don’t have to keep asking me.” John looks at his hands, a couple of the fingers on his right hand permanently curled just slightly after being broken more than once.  He never did learn to be careful.

Sherlock stares, brow furrowing with concern. “That’s what you think? No, not at all. Here, sit down.” He gestures to the bench next to him, and John straddles it, looking at Sherlock and wondering what this is all about. Sherlock pushes his things to the floor and straddles the bench as well, facing John and resting his elbows on his knees.

“John, I wanted you to see me fence. I thought, well, if you saw me, it would help inspire you to go back to therapy.”

John’s startled, and a bit irritated. “It didn’t. Look, I appreciate it, but it’s too late for me to do anything like what I could before – hell, I can’t even put the sugar back in the cabinet! You know that.”

Sherlock looks thoughtful. “You could, if you bothered to try. But you haven’t, have you? Rather let yourself mould into the chair, watching telly.”

“Shut up! What the hell would you even know about it, with your perfect body - God, do you even know what you look like when you’re out there? It’s like water, like a stream, all movement and grace and I don’t even know what I’m saying. But it’s beautiful.”

“Of course it is,” Sherlock says, tentatively reaching out a hand to rest on John’s shoulder, the ruined one, the one that haunts his every moment. “I’ve spent almost 25 years training my body and my mind to do exactly that. Everyone has something that their body is meant to do, and if you’re lucky enough, you not only find that thing, but you love it. Fencing is what I’m designed for, body and mind. It takes mental and physical discipline, individuality, and no small amount of ego, I’m afraid.”

“Sounds like you in spades,” John says wryly.

Sherlock smiles back, “Indeed. But you don’t realize just how much your mind is rebelling at the inactivity you’ve been forced into. That’s not your normal state of being. You’re letting your frustration feed a vicious cycle when you don’t need to. You look at yourself and see what you’ve lost. I look at you and see what you are – strong, resolute, smart and instinctive. A team player. Someone that would excel at rugby. Which you used to play, did you not?”

The warmth of Sherlock’s hand is seeping through his clothes. “Yes, and I’m sure I don’t need to ask how you knew that. You’ve been snooping through my things.”

“Of course I have,” Sherlock says primly, and John laughs.

“All right, yes. I did, and I could carry a 50 pound pack across the mountains, sometimes carry another man with me if I needed to, for a short way. I could do that all day, every day. I’m not used to feeling so fucking _weak_.”

“Yet you won’t go to therapy.”

“Not much more therapy can do. The rest is up to me, really.” John drops his head a little. Even the thrill of living with Sherlock hasn’t kick started him into working harder, just showed him how much he is missing.

“Then you’re coming with me, three times a week, to the gym here. I’ll show you – you’re still who you are, just need a bit of fine tuning.”

John smiles. “Workout by Sherlock Holmes?” That’s all he needs, to become another of Sherlock’s little projects. But the idea is appealing, regular lifting once he has his scar tissue broken loose again, could really help. And it would be easier to do if Sherlock were prodding him all of the time. It’s not like he has a job to go to, anyway.

“You’ll wish you were dead,” Sherlock quips, dropping his hand from John’s shoulder and standing up to pack away his locker. “And then you’ll join the local pickup rugby league on Thursdays.”

“Really? Do I get to have cake for tea, then, Mum?”

Sherlock turns to shove him playfully. “Not your mum, idiot. But I do want you in top shape,” he says, his voice turning suddenly serious. “I’ve never had an assistant, and you’re…exactly what I need.” Sherlock looks at him intently and John looks back, holding that blue-grey gaze for a moment, until the corners of Sherlock’s eyes crinkle as he smiles a bit shyly. An offer of friendship couched in distinctly Sherlockian terms, and one John’s more than happy to accept.

“You really are something,” John says. “Thank you. And I meant what I said earlier – you are amazing when you fence. And it you’re right, it is so perfectly you.”

Sherlock grins delightedly and slams his locker door closed, clasping the lock. He picks up his jacket and turns toward the door. “That may be, John, but there’s one other thing I haven’t told you yet.”

“What’s that?”

“I also box.” With that, Sherlock leaves John standing alone in the echoing room imagining a half-bare, sweating Sherlock pummeling another man with his fists in a primal contest of brutal strength and agility.

Yes, that sounds like him, too.


End file.
